Rising From Ashes: The Matriarch's Spectacular Comeback

Dusty Schultz snapped his jaw shut. He bent down, his hands shaking slightly as he scooped up the ruined tablet. He straightened his tie, forcing his face into a mask of corporate indifference, and walked down the steps.

"Right this way, ma'am," Dusty said, his voice tight.

Katherine walked up the marble steps, the security guards trailing a respectful three paces behind. She stepped through the massive double doors into the grand foyer. The air inside smelled of expensive wax and dying lilies.

Her eyes immediately swept the walls. The Renaissance portraits she had curated were gone. The antique vases were replaced with gaudy, mirrored pedestals. Every trace of her existence had been sterilized from the house.

Alistair Pemberton, the head butler, was standing near the grand staircase, directing a maid. He turned his head as Katherine walked in.

The silver pocket watch slipped from Alistair's fingers and clattered onto the marble floor. All the color drained from his face.

"Madam," Alistair choked out, his hand flying up to cover his mouth.

Katherine did not stop walking. She simply turned her head and held Alistair's gaze for one long, terrifying second. The butler shrank back against the banister.

Dusty led her up the sweeping Persian-carpeted stairs to the third floor. They reached the guest suite at the end of the hall. Dusty pushed the heavy oak door open and gestured for her to enter.

Katherine stepped inside. The door shut behind her. The heavy deadbolt clicked into place.

The room was dark. She walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out over the manicured French maze garden below. Her reflection in the glass was pale and smeared with soot.

Ten minutes later, the deadbolt clicked again.

Dusty wheeled a small silver cart into the room. It held a plate of plain sandwiches, a glass of water, and a white first-aid kit. He parked the cart near the door and took two steps back, keeping a safe distance. He looked at her like she was an unexploded bomb.

"I don't know which underground clinic did your face," Dusty said, his tone flat and lethal. "But the Blackburn legal department is going to bury you so deep you won't see sunlight for the rest of your natural life."

Katherine pulled out a chair and sat down at the small table. She ignored the food for a moment. Instead, she opened the white first-aid kit, pulling out a sterile alcohol wipe. With practiced, steady movements, she began to clean the coagulated blood from the shrapnel slice on her forearm. The sting was sharp, but her expression remained completely impassive as she wrapped a tight white bandage around the wound. Only when the bleeding was fully secured did she reach out. She picked up the glass of water, took a slow sip, and set it down.

"You always were a bit dramatic, 'Squeaky'."

Dusty's spine snapped straight. The nickname hit him like a physical blow. It was what the senior traders called him during his disastrous internship on Wall Street twelve years ago.

His hand instinctively dropped to the small of his back, resting on the grip of his concealed holster. "How did you access my sealed files?"

Katherine ignored the threat. She folded her hands on the table and looked at him, her eyes softening into genuine concern.

"Why does he smell like a distillery, Dusty? Why are his hands shaking?"

Dusty flinched. Hearing Kennard's pain addressed so casually broke a crack in his armor. He ground his teeth together. "Because of that parasite, Brittnie. She drains him."

Katherine kept her eyes locked on his, applying a steady, suffocating pressure. "It's more than that. Tell me."

Dusty's chest heaved. The professional barrier shattered under the weight of his exhaustion. "He hasn't slept more than two hours a night for ten years. Every time he tries to cut her off, the migraines hit him. They blind him." Dusty's voice cracked. "He locked himself in the master bathroom last year. I had to kick the door in. He was on the floor, hurting himself just to make the blinding pain in his head stop. He was smashing his own knuckles against the tiles, desperate for any physical agony to override the torment in his brain."

The glass of water slipped from Katherine's fingers.

It hit the hardwood floor and shattered, sending water and shards of glass exploding across the room. The hem of her coat soaked up the spill.

The absolute control she had maintained since waking up in the fire evaporated.

Katherine pressed both hands over her mouth, but the sound tore its way out anyway. A raw, guttural sob ripped from her throat. She slid off the chair, her knees hitting the floor—her right knee screaming in protest as it struck the hardwood—just inches away from the jagged pieces of broken glass. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, bending double as the physical agony of a mother's grief crushed her chest.

Dusty froze. The sheer, unadulterated devastation in her cries paralyzed him. He had expected a spy, a con artist. He had not expected this visceral, bleeding sorrow. He stood there, his hands hovering uselessly at his sides.

Outside the room, standing in the shadows of the staircase, Kennard leaned heavily against the wall.

He was wearing an earpiece, connected directly to the room's hidden surveillance feed.

The sound of her sobbing fed directly into his ear. It felt like someone was twisting a serrated blade into his ribs. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. The script in his brain screamed at him that it was a trick, but his body betrayed him. His heart hammered against his sternum.

Kennard ripped the earpiece out. He took the stairs two at a time, his heavy footsteps echoing in the hall. He slammed his thumb against the biometric scanner on the door.

The lock flashed green.

Kennard pushed the door open. He saw her kneeling in the glass, her shoulders shaking violently.

He looked at Dusty and jerked his head toward the hallway. Dusty didn't say a word. He practically fled the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Kennard walked slowly toward the center of the room. He dropped to one knee, his heavy hand sweeping a sharp shard of glass out of the way before his expensive trousers hit the floor. His body was stiff, every muscle locked in a desperate battle for control. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silk handkerchief.

He held it out to her.

Katherine lifted her head. Her face was wet, her eyes red and swollen. She didn't take the handkerchief.

She lunged forward and threw her arms around his neck.

Kennard's entire body seized. He stopped breathing. His hands hovered in the air, rigid and trembling. The smell of her skin—a scent he hadn't smelled in twelve years—flooded his senses. Slowly, agonizingly, his arms lowered. He didn't hug her back, but he didn't push her away.

As she buried her face in his shoulder, Kennard's right hand moved with practiced, lethal precision.

His fingers brushed the collar of her coat. He pinched a single, long strand of hair near the root and pulled sharply. He curled the hair, follicle intact, into his palm, hiding it in his fist.